


Heart of Stone

by KiaMianara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Pre-Fall, or some other AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24236131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiaMianara/pseuds/KiaMianara
Summary: Curses and the importance of hugs.(I suck at summaries. Please give it a try regardless.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 11





	Heart of Stone

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a dream I had the other night and I tried to stay as close to said dream as I could. The problem is, the dream was like looking at comic panels with washed out colours, only the tiniest hint of movement and no dialogue whatsoever.
> 
> It was pretty cool and I tried to translate the effect, so almost every paragraph describes a panel. I'm not sure if it came out the way I wanted; the writing style is pretty experimental for me.

In a bookshop in Soho that is (not) selling books since 1800, a man-shaped being is puttering around as they have since opening day. They are soft, with hair the colour of polished marble and clothes reminiscent of travertine and limestone. They favour their right leg ever so slightly.

The doorbell, an ancient thing as old as the bookshop but nowhere near as old as the owner, jiggles although the door should have been locked.

Another man-shaped being slithers in, all lean angles, wrapped in darkness and fire.

The bookshop owner is surprised, then smiles ever so fondly.

Reflecting in the sunglasses of the darker one, the bookshop owner opens his arms, warm and welcoming, then the image is overshadowed by another.

*~*~*

There is gravel and sand, empty pedestals and broken columns; the ruins of what might have been a splendid boulevard. It could be Greece, Turkey, Egypt, or perhaps Syria if it is indeed a place anywhere on the earthly plane of existence. Whatever caused the destruction, it must have been long ago. Only the statue is untouched by time and corrosion.

The statue depicts a wingless angel with the face of the bookshop owner. It is hewn from white stone, seamless, flawless, and dressed in a toga. Feet bare, the statue stands straight with their arms outstretched as if waiting for someone to run into them, eternally welcoming them with a fond smile.

An angel with reddish hair – the one alive, breathing by choice if not necessary – lands, folding away their white wings. They stare at the statue, then sit on an empty pedestal, gesturing animatedly as if regaling a grand tale to the statue (or perhaps being dramatic over something inconsequential).

The light changes, days go by, seasons, years, perhaps decades. The angel returns again and again. They start out on the empty pedestal, other times pace the space between, closer and closer, agitated and sadder, too. They brush their hands against the statue’s in parting.

The statue never reacts, never did, can’t, so why do they keep expecting otherwise, pausing mid-rant to give lifeless stone the opportunity to reply, reprimand, anything.

Once, the angel drapes themselves over the statue’s back, arms hazard wrapped around it, head resting on their shoulder. Gesturing with sluggish movement at something in the theoretical line of sight of the statue, commenting on what was, had been or would once be there.

Then, sprawled against the pedestal of the statue, an amphora in one hand, two others strewn about, empty already. Too drunk to stand or articulate what caused this escape into excess.

Then, crying at the feet of the statue. The sky is dark and starless, fire casting every surface in a red light. There is a notable fissure at the right leg of the statue from when the angel had tried to move it out of harm’s way. Upon failure, the angel has resorted to other means, dark strains on their toga and wings, maybe blood, maybe ichor, maybe something darker.

Then, the angel sits at the feet of the statue, motionless, wrapped in dark wings and glaring at the world at large, furious at first, then sadness creeps in, overwhelms, becomes wid desperation, determination.

At last, the angel stands on the empty pedestal, then, stepping forward, they jump into the always waiting arms of the statue, lips forming words, perhaps a vow, perhaps a name, perhaps cursing themselves to share the statue’s fate.

Then, a crack, forming where the heart of the statue would have been, spreading, golden light spilling out.

*~*~*

In a bookshop in Soho, a man-shaped being dressed in black flies into the waiting arms of a man-shaped being dressed in cream. They laugh, they stumble, end up intertwined on an old couch, arms wrapped around each other, a long-fingered hand wrapped protectively around a right leg, covering a scar long healed but sometimes still aching. A reminder, bitter sweet, but welcome. A reminder that they are alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what actually happened. It could be anything, really.  
> Crowley could have had a nightmare.  
> Aziraphale might have managed to end up cursed sometime in ancient Greece.  
> Aziraphale got into trouble before The Rebellion and that was his punishment.  
> Crowley was Lonely(TM) and fell in love with a statue, bringing it to life.
> 
> I'm curious what you think.  
> (and if you can think of some better tags or a better summary, let me know. I really suck at that.)
> 
> Also, before you ask, I can draw one (1) tree, two (2) dragons and three (3) geometrical 3D forms but not people, postures or backgrounds, so simply drawing the comic was out of question. If one of you wants to give it a try, let me know.


End file.
